A Steelin' O' the Green
by kgmohror
Summary: Steele always gets moody this time of year. Can Laura help him out of his funk?


**A Steelin' O' the Green**

Laura glanced at her watch, sighed, and closed the manila folder on her desk. It had not been a productive day. Miss Holt prided herself on her level head and her ability to turn off her feelings and focus analytically on the task at hand. But, like so many other things that had changed in the past two-and-a-half years, Laura now found it harder to maintain emotional detachment – especially when it came to the handsome, enigmatic man in the next office. She was worried about him.

He'd been uncharacteristically moody all day, his usual glib geniality replaced by a taciturn, almost melancholy demeanor. She had seen him this way before around this time of year – his "Ides of March mood," she'd named it. It always passed within a day or so. In the past, she hadn't known why he became withdrawn at this time … but this year she thought she understood. It had been an eventful year for them both, and she'd learned many surprising things about "the man without a name." It hurt her to see the hint of sadness in his blue eyes, but she had no idea what she could do about it.

Laura got up from her desk and walked to the red door connecting her office with Mr. Steele's. Her light knock went unanswered, so she opened it a crack and peered in. The office was empty. Hurrying to the lobby, Laura just caught Mildred as she was about to lock up for the day.

"Mildred, has Mr. Steele already left for the day?"

The receptionist looked surprised. "Yes, Miss Holt. About 3:00. I assumed he'd told you." The kind-hearted woman frowned and crossed to Laura. "To be honest, I'm a little worried, Miss Holt. The Boss hasn't been himself all day. So quiet! You think he'd coming down with something?"

Laura felt a surge of affection for Miss Krebs. "I'm sure he'll be fine tomorrow, Mildred. And I know he'd be touched by your concern."

Mildred didn't look convinced. "Maybe I should make him some of my mother's chicken soup," she suggested.

"A special recipe?" Laura smiled.

"Not very special," Mildred chuckled. "My mother wasn't much of a cook. A can of Campbell's is a gourmet dish in comparison. But I still make up a batch whenever I'm under the weather." She shrugged. "I suppose it's just comforting to have something familiar when you're feeling low."

"You're a wise woman, Mildred," Laura said as the secretary's words sparked an idea.

"So I should make him the soup?"

Laura leaned in and gave Mildred a kiss on the cheek. "Leave it me. I think I know something that will work even better than your mother's soup."

Laura stopped home to change from her business suit into jeans and crisp, white linen shirt and dark blue blazer, then drove the Rabbit to Rossmore. She had to knock three times on Mr. Steele's door before she heard his voice, unusually brusque, from inside the apartment.

"All right, all right! I'm coming." The door swung open as Steele continued to grumble. "What do you want?" Seeing who it was, his eyes widened and he looked embarrassed. "Laura! I'm sorry. I thought it was someone selling vacuum cleaners or something."

Laura gave him a bemused smile. "Remind me to let you handle it the next time someone shows up in the office peddling copy machines," she said, stepping past him into the apartment.

Mr. Steele had also changed from his office attire into something more comfortable: black jeans and a soft, gray v-neck sweater. Laura approved. No one wore a suit – or God bless him, a tuxedo – better than Mr. Steele. But he was equally attractive like this, casual and a little tousled.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

He looked confused and a little anxious. "Ah … no. I don't have much in the house, but I could whip up an omelet …"

Laura laughed. "I didn't come here to coerce you into feeding me. I'm taking you out to dinner."

His brow furrowed. "That's a very kind – and if I may say so, rather unexpected – offer," he said. "But to be honest, I'm not really in a sociable mood this evening."

"I know. That's why we're going," Laura responded firmly. She took him by the elbow and steered him toward the hall closet. "Now grab a jacket and let's go."

"Laura, I'm hardly dressed for dinner out."

"You look fine. We're not going to Spago."

Steele grabbed his black bomber jacket from the closet, protesting all the while. "Really, Laura. I won't be good company this evening." He nevertheless allowed her to tug him down the hall to the elevator. "And what about the strictly business rule?" he added as the elevator doors closed in front of them.

Laura sighed, exasperated. He would pick tonight to remind her of her rash decision to put their personal relationship on hold. Things had improved since his savage beating by Buckner's goons had scared her into acknowledging how much she missed being close to him. Still, the Cannes Agreement had never been explicitly revoked. Undeterred, Laura fixed him with a sharp look that brooked no further argument. "_Strictly_ speaking, I'm making it my _business_ to cheer you up." She was rewarded with a slight smile. It would have to do – for now.

Moments later they were speeding along the 405 toward West Hollywood. The brief lift in Steele's mood in the elevator hadn't lasted; casting a sidelong look at him, Laura saw his face was serious, his manner distracted and distant. Laura exited the freeway and turned down a series of side streets in a mostly residential area. A native Angelino, Laura felt she could find her way around any part of the city, but she rarely wandered this far off the beaten path. She was relieved, then, when she spied their destination – a small establishment tucked in among a few neighborhood shops.

She pulled in to a vacant parking spot across the street, somewhat surprised that on this of all nights the place didn't seem overly crowded. Steele glanced at the name of the place painted in gilded letters above the door. "Kelly's Pub?" He turned to Laura with a questioning look.

"It's March 17," she explained. "I thought you might be feeling a little homesick."

"Ireland hasn't been home for a long time," he answered, his tone subdued.

She leaned over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We never forget where we come from, Mr. Steele."

"Aye," he answered softly, seemingly unaware of slipping back into the lilting cadence of his youth.

They got out of the Rabbit and walked across to the pub. The place was small – the phrase "hole in the wall" came to Laura's mind – but warm and homey. The bar and tables were made from some rich, dark wood. The walls were painted a dark green and festooned with signs from various breweries as well as flags depicting what Laura guessed were the crests of Irish clans. A small, empty stage was at one end of the room. Most of the tables were occupied by people of various ages, but there were still a few empty seats. Mr. Steele headed toward a small, round table not far from the stage and pulled out a chair for Laura to take a seat.

"I'm surprised at how quiet it is," Laura commented. There was a steady hum of conversation around them, but it was less noisy than most bars Laura had visited. "I was expecting something a little more … exuberant."

"You mean a crowd of drunken Irishmen swilling whiskey and breaking out into fistfights?" Steele responded, looking bemused.

Laura colored slightly. "No, of course not. But it is St. Patrick's Day, after all. Shouldn't there be more revelry going on? You know – green beer and funny hats and …" she trailed off as Steele winced in her direction.

"Really, Laura. I wouldn't expect you to buy into those stereotypes. Of course the Irish celebrate the day. But I think you'll find that most of the most flamboyant 'Irish' on St. Patrick's Day have never set food on the Isle." He gazed around him and a small smile appeared on his face. "How did you find this place?"

"I called our accountant, Colin Flynn, and asked him for the most authentic Irish pub he knew. He directed me here – apparently he grew up in the neighborhood. Is it all right?"

Steele nodded. "Yes. I could almost imagine I was in Dublin. It's been a long time since I've been in a local like this."

"Local?"

"A neighborhood watering hole. I doubt they get many strangers in here."

"We do seem to be attracting a bit of attention," Laura said, glancing around the room at a dozen sets of eyes regarding them curiously over the rims of their pint glasses.

"How are the men?" Steele called out suddenly. His words were answered by a ragged chorus of "Ah, aye!" from around the room, and Laura saw a few of the patrons tip their glasses toward them in a salutary way. Steele acknowledged their actions with a nod, and the regulars turned their attention back to their own conversations.

"What was that about?" Laura asked.

"Basic protocol when entering a local that's not your own," Steele shrugged. "I should have done it when we first came in. Bit out of practice."

Just then a pretty, young woman approached the table. She was, Laura noted, as dazzled by the handsome detective as every other woman who encountered him. Laura had a sneaking suspicion that even she had displayed that characteristic deer-in-the-headlights look the day he'd entered her office as Ben Pearson.

"Something from the bar, sir?" the waitress asked in an authentic-sounding Irish accent.

"A pint for myself and a glass for the lady," Steele replied, his own voice taking on some of the girl's brogue.

"Very good sir," the girl beamed. "And will you be wanting something from the kitchen?"

Steele glanced at a large chalkboard propped up on the bar and quickly scanned the items listed there. His face brightened visibly as his eye lit upon something he liked.

"Shepherd's Pie!" He glanced at his companion. "Laura?"

"Sounds good to me." She smiled, delighted by the way such a simple thing could lift his spirits.

"Two, then, darlin'," Steele said, and the waitress fairly danced off to place their orders.

"You certainly know your way around a pub, Mr. Steele," Laura teased.

"Blame my misspent youth," he said lightly.

"Do tell," Laura said, leaning forward on her elbows.

Steele's face suddenly became guarded. "It's a long, boring story," he said, a hint of sadness returning to his eyes. Laura kicked herself inwardly for stepping over that invisible line that separated "Remington Steele" from the real, flesh-and-blood man across from her.

The waitress appeared again and set a large tulip glass full of cloudy, dark liquid in front of Steele, and a shorter one in front of Laura. "Your plates will be along directly," she said as she sailed away again.

Laura reached for her glass, but Steele put a warning hand up and shook his head. "Not yet."

She gave him a puzzled look, but sat back in her chair obediently. The waitress appeared again with steaming plates of Shepherd's Pie, setting them down with a flourish.

Laura looked warily at her plate, then at Mr. Steele. "Am I allowed to taste it?"

"Of course," he answered, tucking in to his own dish with relish.

Laura picked up her fork and took a bite. It was delicious – a combination of creamy mashed potatoes, meat and vegetables that were the very essence of comfort food.

Buzzing their table again, the waitress inquired, "How do you find the pie, sir?"

"Grand," he said with a grin. "I haven't tasted the like in donkey's years." He looked at the two glasses standing beside their plates. "At last! I've a throat on me." He picked up his pint and held it at eye level toward the light, a look of frank admiration on his face. Laura saw that the previously murky liquid had settled into a warm amber with a foamy head.

"When you sup, be sure to drink through the foam," Steele directed. He raised his glass to his lips and took a long draught, then set his glass down and regarded Laura with a sly smile. "Go on, then."

She lifted her glass and took a swig, then grimaced as the bitter, slightly burnt taste filled her mouth.

Steele chuckled. "Guinness is an acquired taste," he consoled her.

"Now you tell me." She set her glass down and stuck her tongue out, causing her companion to laugh out loud. She looked into his eyes and the sparkle there warmed her more than the alcohol in her gullet. His gaze turned soft, then, and his smile became wistful.

"I don't remember much about my early childhood," he said quietly. "I think I was born in the north, or at least spent my first years in that part of the country. There was someone, I think, who ... cared for me. Her eyes were blue, like mine."

"Your mother?" Laura asked gently.

He shook his head. "I don't think so. The edges of her eyes were crinkled, like laugh lines on an older woman's face."

"A grandmother, maybe."

"Perhaps." He paused, lost in the mists of far-distant memory. "I don't remember her speaking to me, calling me by any name. But I remember singing. I think she sang to me." As he spoke, he fingered the gold disk that always hung from a chain around his neck. Laura had always wondered what it signified.

"Did that belong to her?" she asked, nodding at the pendant.

Steele looked surprised, apparently unaware than he had been manipulating the piece. "No," he admitted, looking a bit sheepish. "I found this in an alley in London. It's the back of a watch."

"A pocket watch?" Laura's mind went instantly to the mysterious pocket watch engraved "To SJ from KL" that proved such a tantalizing, ultimately frustrating clue to his identity.

"No. This was from a wrist watch, a lady's watch," Steele answered. "I picked it up because it reminded me of something. I think maybe I used to play with a watch like that when I was a little one. I remember holding it up to the window, seeing sparkles of light glint off the crystal face. The watch I found in London was broken, so I just took the back and put it on a chain. Sort of a remembrance, I suppose, though I don't really know of what." He looked down into his pint. "Seems a bit stupid, when I say it out loud."

Laura reached across the table and placed her small hand over his large one. "It's not stupid at all."

While they'd been talking and eating, a trio of musicians had taken the stage and begun tuning up. They arranged a variety of instruments around them, including a fiddle, guitar, tabor, keyboard and several wind instruments. A banner on the wall behind the stage that proclaimed their identity: The Lads from Wicklow.

Glancing around, Laura noticed that the place had begun to fill up and the crowd was becoming merry. When the waitress stopped by their table to clear away their plates, Mr. Steele tapped the rim of his nearly empty glass. "Will you be having another?" the waitress asked Laura, though her glass was almost as full as when she'd delivered it. Laura politely declined the offer.

Having finished their preparation, the Lads from Wicklow launched into their first number. It was a lyrical, poignant ballad sung in a sweet tenor by a young man who accompanied himself on guitar while another of the three played the violin:

"_I walk through the city a stranger_

_in a land I can never call home,_

_and I curse the sad notion that brought me_

_in search of my fortune to roam._

_I'm weary of working and drinking;_

_a week's wages left in the bar._

_And God, it's a shame for to use a friend's name_

_to beg for the price of a jar …"_

Laura was deeply moved by this tale of lost hopes and loneliness, a young man who left his homeland to find a better life, only to have his dreams dashed:

"_And for every man here that finds fortune_

_and comes home to tell of the tale,_

_each morning the Broadway is crowded_

_with many the thousands who fail._

_So young men of Ireland take warning:_

_In London you never will find_

_the gold at the end of the rainbow,_

_for you might just have left it behind …"_

Laura noticed that Steele was listening intently. She wondered how much he identified with the song. She knew he'd been on his own from an early age, and it hurt her to imagine a young boy scrounging for discarded treasures – a broken watch – in an alley. Her own teenage years had been difficult, but she'd never had to worry about finding a place to sleep or a scrap to eat. And even with her dysfunctional family, she had never doubted that she was deeply loved by her mother and Frances and even, she had to believe, by her absent father.

The song ended on a plaintive note and received a round of applause from the audience. A slightly older member of the trio (Laura guessed he might be the singer's older brother) stepped forward and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Now, that was lovely, Sean," he said, "but perhaps a bit dour for the occasion, don't you think? You're making the lasses cry!" He looked straight at Laura and gave her a sassy wink. "Do you not know any livelier tunes?"

"Aye, Mick," said Sean good-naturedly. "I only wanted to save your arthritic old hands."

"I can take whatever you throw at me, lad."

With that they launched into a sprightly number that Mr. Steele evidently recognized, as he was grinning even before the first lyric was sung:

_In the town of Ballybay, there was a lassie dwelling;_

_I knew her very well and her story's well worth telling._

_Her father kept a still and he was a good distiller,_

_but when she took to a drink, well the devil wouldn't fill her._

_Ring-a-ding-a-dong, ring-a-ding-a-daddy-o_

_Ring-a-ding-a-dong, whack fol the daddy o_

_She had a wooden leg that was hollow down the middle;_

_she used to tie a string on it and play it like a fiddle._

_She fiddled in the hall and she fiddled in the alleyway;_

_she didn't give a damn, for she had to fiddle anyway…_

As the band continued relating the outlandish antics of the Ballybay lassie, through verse after verse, the listening crowd grew ever more engaged. Soon there were hands clapping and feet stamping along to the beat, and the crowd roared along with every chorus:

_Ring-a-ding-a-dong, ring-a-ding-a-daddy-o_

_Ring-a-ding-a-dong, whack fol the daddy o!_

When even Steele joined in, nodding his head and clapping his hands, how could Laura resist. She laughed and ring-a-dinged with the best of them, becoming so animated that she attracted the notice again of Mick in the band. For when the song ended, and the cheering faded, he stepped up to the microphone and sighed.

"Ah, my friends, there are sights here to make a man pine for home." He looked directly at Laura. "Tell me, lass: What might your name be?"

"Laura," she replied, somewhat embarrassed. She sneaked a glance at Mr. Steele, who was grinning.

"I thought as much!" Mick exclaimed. "And might you be from County Tyrone, darlin'?"

Laura shook her head. "Sorry."

Mick affected a look of great sorrow. "Ah, now that's a shame. For I was sure it was you I saw there when last I visited the old sod, and didn't we have a merry time of it, too!"

The crowd roared with laughter as the band struck up again. This time Mick took the vocals, directing his song with dramatic gestures and flirty eyes toward Laura:

_If I were King of Ireland and all things at my will,_

_I'd roam through all creation, new fortunes to find still._

_And the fortune I would seek the most, you all must understand_

_is to win the heart of LAURA, the flower of sweet Strabane._

_Her cheeks they are a rosy red, her hair golden brown,_

_and o'er her lily white shoulders it carelessly falls down._

_She's one of the loveliest creatures of the whole of Ireland_

_and my heart is captivated by the flower of sweet Strabane…_

This song was greeted with even more raucous appreciation, as the crowd – with a few Guinnesses consumed among them – really warmed up.

At the end of the song, Mick gave Laura another wink and turned his attention to Mr. Steele. "Your missus is a right corker, sir. Will you take a shilling for her?"

"There's not enough gold in Ireland, mate!" Steele called back good-naturedly.

"It's a wise man who knows the worth of his lady," Mick said. "Do you have a request for the band, sir, since I've offended your honor?"

Steele thought a moment. "Do you know Beautiful Meath?" he said at last.

Mick grinned. "A lad from the Royal County! I might have known, with looks like that. Will you take the lead on this one, Sean?"

The tune they struck up had an almost country western feel to it, Laura thought. Steele was transfixed as they sang, a faraway look in his eyes.

_I've travelled many counties in Ireland,_

_but there's still one I'm longing to see._

_It has been a part of my homeland_

_and it brings back fond memories to me._

_Where I wandered alone in my childhood,_

_reviewing the sights I once seen,_

_as I walked through the parks and the forests_

_'round the beautiful county of Meath._

Those in the crowd who knew the song began to sing along, swaying to its gentle rhythm. Laura saw Steele's lips forming the familiar lyrics:

_Oh, beautiful Meath, you've got all that I need,_

_your rivers they flow with delight;_

_your fields are so green, there's plains to be seen_

_and your towns are so gay and so bright._

_Fishing down on the Boyne, I remember the time_

_-you would think it was all just a dream-_

_and wherever you roam, there's no place like home_

_and the beautiful county of Meath_.

The lads continued playing song after song: "Cavan Girl," "Curragh of Kildare," "Whiskey in the Jar," "The Enniskillen Dragoons." By the time he'd finished his third pint, Steele was in rare form, singing along lustily. When they struck up "Rocky Road to Dublin," he was stomping and clapping so exuberantly that Laura thought he might leap onto the stage and do a jig. At some point, it ceased to be a band performing to an audience; the listeners became part of the music making. One by one, patrons joined the musicians to lead the audience in their own favorites. At last Mick turned to Steele with a wave. "How about the lad from Meath?"

Steele laughed and shook his head. "That would bring the party to a swift and certain end!"

"I never knew a Meath man to be a coward," Mick needled.

"And you never will!" Steele retorted. "But I've too much respect for this fine company to subject them to my caterwauling."

There was a chorus of protestation from the crowd until Laura, grinning, said, "I don't think you're going to escape, Mr. Steele."

He shook his head and got to his feet. "Better get ready to make a break for it," he whispered as he passed by her. "We may have to beat a hasty retreat." He walked – only a little unsteadily – to the stage, accompanied by hoots and shouts of encouragement. Laura knew what to expect; she'd heard him sing before, and knew he'd never make a living at it. But this evening didn't seem to be about who had the finest voice. It was a community of people bound together by love and longing for a land 5,000 miles away.

Steele conferred a moment with the band, then settled down on a vacant stool next to Mick. "I'm counting on you all to help me out here," he pleaded. The band began to play, and to Laura's surprise the tune wasn't a rollicking reel, but rather a medium-slow ballad. The band played the introduction twice before Steele found the courage to open his mouth. His voice, though not entirely mellifluous, was strong and clear:

_The violets were scenting the woods, Nora,_

_displaying their charms to the bee,_

_when I first said I loved only you, Nora,_

_and you said you loved only me._

_The chestnut blooms gleamed through the glade, Nora_

_a robin sang loud from a tree,_

_when I first said I loved only you, Nora_

_and you said you loved only me …_

By the second verse, Steele had been joined by many in the crowd, so Laura couldn't be sure that she heard him correctly. But it almost sounded like, as he warbled the final lines, Mr. Steele substituted an L for the N in the lady's name.

Though not the strongest performance of the night, Mr. Steele's number was greeted with as much genuine enthusiasm as anyone else's. Laura felt a surge of pride in him as she contributed her own applause and whistles to the acclaim. Steele grinned almost shyly and made his way back to the table. Laura gave his arm an affectionate squeeze as he sat down again. "That was terrific!" she said, and he rolled his eyes in response. But she thought he looked pleased.

"I hate to break up the party," she said, glancing at her watch, "but it's nearly midnight – and this is a school night. Can you tear yourself away?"

Steele nodded. "It's for the best, I think. I'm beginning to feel that last pint." He reached for his wallet, but Laura stopped him.

"My treat, remember?"

"Ah, Laura. A man doesn't let his lady pay his way. You'll shame me in front of all these good folks." He smiled. "Besides, the pleasure of your company and this amazing evening is worth any price." Laura shrugged and allowed him to settle their tally at the bar. She waited for him at the door, listening as the Lads of Wicklow put a poignant coda on their night:

_It's my own Irish home,_

_far across the foam,_

_although I've oft time left it_

_in foreign lands to roam. _

_No matter where I wander_

_through cities near and far,_

_my heart is at home in old Ireland_

_in the County of Armagh …_

Steele joined her, slipping an arm around her slender waist. As they left the pub and headed toward the Rabbit, he leaned close and whispered in her ear.

"Mick was right, Laura. You _are_ a corker."


End file.
